


Make It Feel like Home

by redeyedwrath



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Allison's Death, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-07 22:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7731580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redeyedwrath/pseuds/redeyedwrath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Maybe it would’ve been different if things had never happened. Maybe it would’ve been different if he hadn’t persuaded Scott to go search in the woods. Maybe it would’ve been different if he hadn’t been so stubborn. Maybe it would’ve been different if he and Scott had never met.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Maybe it would’ve been different, would’ve been better, if he hadn’t been born in the first place.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He tightens his fingers on the steering wheel until they turn an ugly, bloodless color. The only good thing, in his opinion, that’d come out of all of this, had been meeting Derek. Derek, who’d been an asshole but turned out to be the most loyal, kindest person Stiles knows.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He resists the urge to drive off the road and scream into his palms. Beause Derek had left, and now he’s alone.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Or, an AU where Stiles runs away to find himself but finds Derek instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make It Feel like Home

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Sterek Summer Spectacle as the Team Finger Lickin' Good submisson ^^ I hope y'all like it!
> 
> (Also, I know this song is from Lana Del Rey originally but I like the the Amity Affliction's version better)

_I feel so alone_  
_On a Friday night_  
_Can you make it feel like home_  
_If I tell you you're mine_

**\- Born to Die, the Amity Affliction**

 

* * *

 

Stiles can’t pin it down to one moment. Or maybe he can, he thinks as he stares down at his fingers, holding on and solid in a way he isn’t. Maybe it’s when Scott yelled at him. Or maybe it’s when things with Malia ended.

It’s not like it matters anyway, not anymore. Beacon Hills is long behind him, disappearing in a trail of dust and the darkness of the night. He’d left a note for his dad, told Scott not to worry about him and threw his phone away.

He doesn’t know where he is, exactly, but he doesn’t care either. He passed Bakersfield about an hour ago, the last big city he’s seen since then and now it’s quiet, peaceful. The Jeep rumbles a bit, a familiar noise that reminds him of the past, back when his mom was still alive.

His watch tells him it’s 1 am. Maybe he should stop at the next Holiday Inn, spend a night before moving on. He’s been driving for five hours now, and he can’t deny how tired he is. There’s only so much time he can spend staring at the wind before he becomes wistful and wishes he could float away too.

Then again, he kind of _is floating_ , he thinks, as he drives off the CA-99 toward the neon signs. Running away won’t solve anything, but maybe it’ll stop his hands from trembling every time a door slams closed.

The girl behind the dingy counter is pretty, bright eyes and hair tied up into a ponytail, and his heart skips a beat. Maybe in another life, where he doesn’t have nightmares and they don’t meet in a hotel that’s seen better days, he’d have asked her out. Now, he just gives her a tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and asks for a room.

She twirls her hair around her finger, red flush on her cheeks as she gives him directions and he feels something in his chest loosen.

The room’s devoid of character, just a bed, a nightstand and a duvet that’s probably seen too many people, yet he feels weirdly grateful. He runs his fingers over the dust on the windowsill, looking out at the empty road and he can’t help but think this is his life now.

He’s seventeen and he’s on the run from himself. He’s killed people and gotten his dad fired and he’s let everyone down. He has nightmares and dreams about death more often than he should.

He draws the number in the dust. He’s seventeen.

-

He hits the road late when he wakes up; the day’s already in the double digits. The girl from last night is nowhere to be seen but he presumes she’s sleeping. He’s gone entire days without sleeping before, torn between researching the Alpha Pack and having a demon inside his body and no one there to protect him.

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, watch the dust rise up and part for him, anything to distract him from himself and the voice in his head telling him he’s not even an adult yet, because he _feels_ like it. Every time he looks in the mirror he expects to see wrinkles and gray hair but instead he sees a nose that’s too big and the ugly spots dotting a pasty face.

Maybe it would’ve been different if things had never happened. Maybe it would’ve been different if he hadn’t persuaded Scott to go search in the woods. Maybe it would’ve been different if he hadn’t been so stubborn. Maybe it would’ve been different if he and Scott had never met.

Maybe it would’ve been different, would’ve been _better_ , if he hadn’t been born in the first place.

He tightens his fingers on the steering wheel until they turn an ugly, bloodless color. The only good thing, in his opinion, that’d come out of all of this, had been meeting Derek. Derek, who’d been an asshole but turned out to be the most loyal, kindest person Stiles knows.

He resists the urge to drive off the road and scream into his palms. Beause Derek had left, and now he’s alone.

-

It’s strangely tranquil, the open road. It calms him, the repetitive movements, the hum of driving. Keeps him from focusing too much, eyes drifting off into the distance.

He doesn’t think about what he left behind, about his dad who has no one left, about Scott who doesn’t have a second anymore, about Lydia who’s all alone in a town full of shapeshifters.

He can’t bring himself to care because he _needs_ this. For the first time in nearly two years, he feels like he can breathe again. It’s like the end to a constant panic attack, so severe and endless that it became the status quo and he hadn’t even noticed.

By the time it’s dark, he still hasn’t figured out where he’s going. It feels out of character, charging in without a plan, but it feels good too. Doing something without thinking about it for once, without wondering about the pros and cons, the consequences of his actions. And he doesn’t care where he’s going, as long as it’s away from shapeshifters and the supernatural and everything that’s going on in his head.

The screen of his cell hurts his eyes when he presses the unlock button, too accustomed to the darkness and he blinks a few times to adjust to the glare. It’s past ten already and he hasn’t eaten anything for seven hours, when he last stopped for gas and bought two soppy croissants.

The only restaurant around is a Wendy’s, and quite frankly his least favorite chain in the world, but he has to eat. There’s a motel next to it, motor cycles filling half the parking lot and if he were someone else he’d be nervous. Instead, he takes a deep breath and parks the Jeep next to one of them.

The restaurant is loud and smells of grease and there’s a family with a crying child in the corner. He swallows and makes his way over to the counter, frowning when he sees the lack of curly fries on the menu.

He orders a cheeseburger and a milkshake, throwing some dollar bills at the bored cashier. The cashier doesn’t even bat an eye at the amount, just gives him the food and he is grateful for the lack of conversation. He’s not sure if he could’ve handled that, not right now.

He takes a seat in the back, at one of the tables that looks the least shiny and eats his cheeseburger in peace, keeping a wary eye on the bikers. The leather jackets remind him of Derek and suddenly the food becomes hard to swallow.

Maybe that’s what Derek’s doing now, riding a bike across the country. It seems like something he’d do, apart from the whole nice and loyal thing he’s got going on. He certainly looks like a biker - or well, he used to, Stiles reminds himself. He hasn’t seen Derek in months.

It’s a harsh reality, one that makes the corner of his eyes prick with tears. He knows Derek had made the right choice, leaving Beacon Hills, where the ghosts of his family followed him around every corner but it’d felt strangely like betrayal. Because Derek was the one who was supposed to stay, and he didn’t.

He throws the last of his cheeseburger into the trashcan, having lost his appetite, but he carries the milkshake with him, sipping from it as he grabs the duffel bag with clothes from the back of the Jeep.

The motel is worse than the Holiday Inn, and he’s set in a smoker’s room, the putrid stench of cigarettes and ashes sinking into everything he has. He takes a shower to try and wash it off but it sticks, another thing that’s marked him and made Stiles its property.

He’s lost count of how many times that’s happened. He thinks back to when he was fifteen, when the biggest of his worries were trying not to chafe his dick and getting Lydia to finally notice him.

Now, he’s surrounded by the remnants of someone else’s life, in a bed that isn’t his, completely alone.

-

The scenery changes for the first time in days. He can’t say he misses the desert, the vast openness of it and the monotony of sand and rocks. He doesn’t get why movies romanticize it; there’s nothing but death and dullness out there.

He thinks that might just be where he belongs.

The trees are a nice, welcome distraction. They don’t feel the same here, less like they’re filled with psychotic serial killers and more like they should be. Like a deer could run onto the road any second. Like a squirrel could be jumping in between the trees.

He swallows, tearing his gaze away from the foliage. They’d been his mom’s favorite creatures, back when she was still alive. She used to take him and dad out for camping trips, eagerly pointing out the constellations in between days of squirrel-spotting.

They used to have an ugly, neon-pink tent, something his mom had insisted wasn’t a problem but had let to squirrel-less days. His dad had just shaken his head and smiled fondly and Stiles had taken everything for granted.

He cries for the first time since he ran away.

-

He stops near the border between Oregon and Idaho. It’s a forest, with a deserted cabin and it reminds him of Beacon Hills in a way that doesn’t make his chest constrict. Everything smells clean and unused, the scent of dirt and pines everywhere and he can’t help but think that this is a place Derek would like.

The cabin’s filled with spider webs and everything’s buried beneath a thick layer of dust that paints it all a muted gray. He rolls up his sleeves, grabbing the towels he bought at the supermarket in the closest village. The faucet stills works, but it bubbles up a thick, brown sludge before the clean water streams through.

He stares at it for a while. Maybe that’s what he’s doing too, just cleaning out. Coughing up the worst before it gets better.

He gets to work eventually though, soaking the towels before cleaning the wooden table. It’s a little rough around the edges and he’s mindful of wood chips, but with a little work it’d be okay, he thinks.

Maybe being a hermit wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks as he soaks the towel again, wringing out the excess water before wiping down a leg. He could live up here, inviting some friends over, only going down to get groceries or buy books. Maybe he could establish an internet connection here.

He’s done with humans though, at least for a little while. He needs to be alone, to stop being confronted by her death and the Nogitsune and Derek’s wounds and Malia’s disappointed looks. He needs to do this for himself.

The couch is probably ruined forever. There are a few holes from cigarette burns and it’s soaked with what smells like piss. He tries his best to get it outside, but he can’t do it, not in one go at least.

He wipes the sweat off his forehead, hands covered in dust and water. His muscles burn pleasantly, an ache that has him sighing. It’s been way too long since he’s felt like this, he thinks as he looks at the trail of footsteps. Been way too long since he felt like he accomplished something, like he did something useful for once. It’s nice.

There’s no mattress or bed and he sighs. He’ll have to drive down again. He’s not above sleeping on the floor right now, just to anchor him to his own humanity and vulnerability, but without as much as a duvet or pillow it’d be torture.

He knows there’s an Ikea nearby, he’d driven past it on his way here. It’s about twenty-five miles away, but he’d be back before it’s dark. He could even eat some meatballs when he’s there, get a microwave and lamps and a nightstand and some pie.

He shrugs off his plaid, laying it on the now-clean table, and washes the residual dust off his hands. It’s a mechanical action. It’s nice to not think about things.

He gets into his Jeep and drives down the narrow road, over the stones and tree roots that make for uncomfortable bumps.

Stiles smiles. He could definitely get used to this.

-

When he gets back to the cabin, back _home_ , he has a mattress, a few pillows, a comforter and five lamps. He hasn’t checked the electricity yet, so he bought the solar-powered ones. Better safe than sorry.

The cabin is nothing like the home he was used to; it’s too musky, too messy, too damp. But, he thinks as he puts the mattress, pillows and quilt down in one of the only adjacent rooms, it definitely could be. It just needs a little fixing-up.

He takes to trying to tear down the ruined shed in the back with his bare hands. It doesn’t work; he’s not strong enough. It gives him a sense of satisfaction though, so he keeps trying until it’s too dark to see and chills run down his spine, chased by thoughts of shapeshifters and the nogitsune.

 _It’s okay_ , he tells himself as he lies down onto the mattress, hugging one of the pillows to his chest. _You’re okay._

-

He makes a few friends in town, as much as a newcomer can make friends in a small place like this, he supposes. The locals smile at him and ask how the cabin’s coming along. He smiles back and tells them it’s fine.

It starts to feel more genuine every time he does.

His favorite’s Margaret, who runs a little sowing shop at the end of Main Street. She’s a kind old woman, with sparkling brown eyes and delicate but strong fingers and his heart clenches every time he sees her; he thinks his mom would’ve looked like her if she’d only had the chance.

Margaret loves having him around too, or he thinks she does, at least. She was wary of him at first, but now she’s all smiles and cookies. There’s not a week that goes by without her fussing over him. He lets her, because he knows she needs it. He needs it too.

“Stiles, dear, you look a little thin,” she says as she pulls him into the back, brushing some wood chips off his jacket. “You should eat more.”

“I’ve been eating,” he protests, letting her push him down into a chair. He knows he could stop her if he wanted to. Knows what his hands are capable of. Has started at them while they were covered in blood.

“Not nearly enough,” she tuts as she grabs the cookie jar. There are different cookies every week, some of them burned slightly and some of them undercooked, but Stiles just thinks it builds character. He always looks forward to it.

“Thanks,” he mumbles when she offers him a cookie. She smiles at him and pushes a wispy strand of gray hair behind her ear.

“No problem, dear. It’s peanut butter this time.”

He moans when he takes the first bite. It’s the most delicious thing he’s eaten in awhile. Maybe, he thinks as he shoves the rest of the cookie into his mouth, maybe things will turn out okay after all.

-

Naturally, that’s when things take a turn for the worst. It’s a rainy day and he needs some supplies. His screwdriver broke and he ran out of butter. The Jeep almost stops working halfway to town and he has to praise her back to life.

The hardware store’s closed. Jack, the owner, has taken a supposedly well-deserved vacation with his wife and Stiles would envy him if standing soaked in the rain didn’t give him a twisted sense of freedom.

His plaid shirt’s ruined and so is his hoodie, but he keeps them on anyway. He turns up the heating. He’ll have to head to Zumwalt. The locals call it the big city, but it’s smaller than Beacon Hills. He has never been before, but he’s heard enough teenagers whisper about its nightlife. Anything’s exciting when you live in such a small town, he supposes.

At least, until you’re faced with death on a daily basis.

He clenches his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to get them to stop trembling. He’s safe here, he reminds himself. There are no shapeshifters here. The Nogitsune’s gone. He’s safe.

By the time he gets to Zumwalt, the car’s warm enough but he’s shivering with something other than cold. He can stop thinking about Allison, about the way she used to smile, the way she’d protected them all, the way she’d fought to get him back, the way he’d killed her.

It wasn’t him, he knows that rationally. People have told him before. Yet it still makes him sick, because he can remember it clearly. The way he’d smiled. The way he’d commanded the Oni. The way he’d relished in it, the agony on Scott’s face, the anger on Chris’, the disbelief on Isaac’s.

He leans his forehead against the forehead, taking a few deep breaths as he listens to the continuous pitter patter of the rain. In three, hold three – you’re safe – out three. In three, hold three – you’re okay – out three. In three, hold three – it’s not your fault – out three.

He steps out into the rain, uncaring for the cold water that trickles down the back of his neck.

He’s felt worse things.

The Walmart hurts his eyes; the LED lights reflect off the metal and the white walls and it reminds him why he used to shop at Costco back in Beacon Hills. He throws a screwdriver and a pack of butter into his basket, adding a chocolate bar for good measure. He’s earned it. He’s made it to seventeen years and eleven months.

The cashier gives him a polite smile, asks for his credit card, and for the first time in a while he feels bashful. Embarrassed. He’s seventeen and he looks like it, floppy nose, soft face, hair that’s hanging into his eyes.

He squares his shoulders. He might look his age, but he doesn’t feel like it. There are worry lines etched onto his forehead.

The rain hasn’t let up yet when he gets back out, but he’s grateful for the cover the dark offers. He feels less naked that way. Less like people can take one look at him and tell he’s murdered people.

He’s putting his groceries into the trunk when someone slams hard into the side of his car. He jumps, hairs on his neck raising and hands trembling as he turns around. Maybe it’s Scott. Maybe his dad tracked him down.

He doesn’t want to go back.

“Stiles,” the person mutters, voice soft and Stiles freezes. He knows that voice, even through the desperation and pain clouding it. “Stiles, help.”

Derek’s slumped against the Jeep, his wet hair pushed back and an arm around his middle and then Stiles sees he’s bleeding. Derek’s scowling in the rain, yet it’s such a parody of his former self that Stiles’ breath catches in his chest.

“What-“ he starts, but then he yells in pain as his arm lights up like it’s on fire. He throws his head back, clenching his teeth, pressing his hand against the bullet wound in his arm to stifle the bleeding. He’s scared at how calm he is.

“Shit,” Derek swears, and then he guides Stiles into the Jeep, taking Stiles’ keys and putting them into the ignition.

The last thing Stiles sees before he passes out is the frantic look Derek sends him when Derek turns the steering wheel and drives them out of the parking lot.

-

He wakes up in a bed that isn’t his, a mattress that is soft and cushions his spine. It’s such a weird sensation that he feels dizzy for a second. When he opens his eyes, his heart starts pounding. The room is painted a muted, dull gray and it’s unfamiliar.

“You’re awake,” someone says from a dark corner. Stiles swallows. He knows that voice.

“Derek,” he whispers, watching as Derek steps forward with a first-aid kit. He’s scowling, but he looks different. Less rough around the edges, Stiles guesses. “What are you doing here? What am _I_ doing here?”

Derek fixes him with a look, pins his hand against the mattress. Stiles shifts; he’s dreamed of Derek doing this a thousand, but never in a situation like _this_. Derek’s hand is warm and soft and presses gently into his skin, a reassuring pressure that sets Stiles’ nerve endings on fire.

“You got shot,” he says, opening the first-aid kit. There’s a frown line between his eyebrows. “I brought you to my apartment.”

Stiles’ heart is pounding. Derek lives here. He left Beacon Hills to avoid the shapeshifters. He never thought he’d run into Derek anywhere; he’d thought Derek was somewhere in Mexico.

“I got shot?” Stiles says, mind running a mile a minute. It feels like everything is in slow motion. Derek motions to the dirty bandage around his upper arm. Stiles frowns; he doesn’t feel anything.

“It’s only a flesh wound,” Derek mumbles as he wraps a new bandage around Stiles’ arm, mindful of the ragged eyes. He tries to glare at Derek but falters, because he’s in Derek’s bedroom. Derek’s safe space. Derek’s shoulders are hunched over and his eyes are focused and he looks so soft and vulnerable that Stiles can’t resist carefully running his fingers over the bared skin of his biceps.

“I can’t believe you know Monty Python,” he says when Derek cuts off the fabric, taping the bandage closed. Derek takes a step back to admire his handwork, and Stiles’ eyes soften as he sees the small smile on Derek’s face.

Derek shrugs, hands drifting over the bandage and suddenly Stiles feels out of place. He’s standing in Derek Hale’s small one-bedroom apartment, hands covered in blood while Derek has a soft smile on his face and it feels like he’s intruding because he hadn’t meant to find Derek. He’d never meant to find Derek.

“I watched all their movies with Laura once,” Derek says suddenly, turning his eyes to Stiles. It takes Stiles’ breath away, the weight of that gaze and the meaning behind those words. Derek turns away then, walking back into the bathroom and Stiles is left staring.

Derek comes back with a bottle of water and he hands it to Stiles. Stiles throws him a small, genuine small and chugs it down, coughing when the water glides down the wrong pipe. Derek pounds him on the back and waits until he’s done, and when Stiles can finally see through the haze of tears, Derek has a smug smile on his face, the asshole.

“I always knew you were a closet nerd,” he rasps, watching as Derek raises his eyebrows. Derek shifts back a little, and Stiles instantly misses the warmth of his body.

“Nothing closet about it, really,” Derek mumbles, looking down at his intertwined hands. “I just liked both books and sports.”

Stiles snorts. He knows Derek had been a jock in high school, had gathered as much from what Cora had told him about –

He bites his lip, turns his head away. Paige isn’t someone he likes to think about, let alone someone _Derek_ likes to think about. He can feel something lodging in his throat, cutting off his air supply. Derek didn’t deserve that, he thinks, eyes clouded with tears. Derek deserves everything good. Everything that’s not a teenager with PTSD.

“I should- I should go.”

He doesn’t think he can stay any longer. Seeing Derek makes his heart beat faster and he’s not sure if he deserves that, not after what he did. Not after he killed someone. Not after he ran away from his problems, instead of just facing them.

“Stiles,” Derek says, gently pushing him down when he tries to stand up. Derek’s hand lingers on his shoulder, his thumb brushing over Stiles’ collarbone and Stiles swallows. Derek’s so different now. It’s like Stiles doesn’t know him anymore. “You need to rest. Just stay here.”

“Okay,” Stiles murmurs, shivering under the intensity of Derek’s gaze. “Okay.”

It feels like something more.

-

He stays at Derek’s apartment for two days. It’s weird, living with someone else for the first time in weeks. He can’t say he’s missed it, but he likes it when Derek smiles at him or claps him on the shoulder. It makes him feel more human, somehow. More like he can trust himself. Derek still trusts him.

He heads back after four days. Derek accepts it with a look and a sad smile and Stiles feels something in his gut clench, but he can’t stay, not like this. Because he might like Derek, but there’s undeniable part of seeing him that reminds him of everything.

Sometimes, he looks at Derek and sees nothing but the kind, loyal man Stiles used to know. Other times, he sees himself planting a bomb in the precinct, laying a trap for Aiden. Sees himself in the hospital, stabbing a nurse and smiling contentedly.

He’s still not convinced he isn’t a monster.

Derek lets him go without complaint. He thinks Derek gets it, knows what it’s like to feel guilt and responsibility weigh you down until you can’t breathe. He squeezes Derek’s shoulder before he goes, not looking back over his shoulder even though he can feel Derek’s heavy gaze on him until he turns away from Derek’s apartment.

He hadn’t given Derek any way to contact him. Claiming that’d been an accident would mean lying. He doesn’t trust himself enough to stay constant, why should he trust Derek.

He lets out a humorless laugh, throwing his head back against the seat. He thinks that this is what Derek might’ve felt when he came back to Beacon Hills.

-

When he goes to Margaret’s that weekend, she hugs him. He feels himself freeze before he circles his arms around her waist. It’s nice, having someone care for him. It’s been too long since he’s been hugged.

“Where were you last week?” she asks, eyes filled with worry. “I thought you might’ve left, or died. You should really give me a way to contact you.”

He smiles at her, but he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t want anyone to want to contact him. He wants them to stay away. He’ll hurt everyone.

“I ran into an old friend, stayed at his place for a few days.”

His voice is hoarse from disuse and he coughs a bit. Margaret tuts and fills a glass of water for him. He accepts it with a nod and gulps it down greedily.

“That must’ve been a special friend,” Margaret says, eyes bright. He resists the urge to frown. He doesn’t want to know what she’s thinking.

“I guess,” he concedes, and drinks the last of his water. Margaret gives him a mischievous smile before handing him a cookie.

“Well, I’m glad you’re back. You missed last week’s raisin cookies, but this week it’s pumpkin and cinnamon.”

He stops. Swallows. Bites back the tears that want to stream down his face as he takes a bite.

They’d been his mom’s favorite.

-

Life picks up its normal pace after that. Or, well, as normal as his life is. He alternates between driving around uselessly and cleaning the cabin, just to keep himself busy. It’s good to do something with his hands for once. The new callouses on his skin make him feel accomplished.

He drives down to the village every once in awhile. Says hi to David, asks him how Sarah is doing. Goes to Margaret’s every week. He buys himself a few books by Oscar Wilde, to keep him company. It’s slowly driving him insane, the constant silence that he can fill with nothing but his own voice and the droplets dripping from the faucet. It reminds him of blood.

It’s on a Wednesday, when Steven has fresh vegetables, that he walks into Derek again. He doesn’t see Derek until it’s too late, when they’re already standing pressed shoulder to shoulder. He’d been lost in thought, debating cauliflower versus green beans, and Derek had taken advantage of his momentary weakness.

“Can’t decide?” Derek asks him, voice soft and understanding and Stiles kind of wants to punch him. Derek doesn’t understand it, doesn’t _get_ what it feels like to lose yourself at seventeen. Then again, he think as he asks Steven for a pound of green beans, maybe Derek does.

“I’m not that bad,” he grumbles and puts the plastic bag filled with beans into his basket, struggling to get the strap open. Derek takes a step forward, pulling the strap open with careful, sure fingers and Stiles envies him.

“I never said you were.”

He looks up at Derek at that, narrowing his eyes. Derek’s standing in front of him, sans leather jacket, hair slightly grown-out but still with a neatly trimmed beard. Stiles is breathless with how much he’s missed him.

“No, you just implied it,” Stiles bites out, forcing himself to looks away. He can’t afford distractions, not now, not when everything’s maybe getting a little better.

He turns away, walking over to David’s stand, hoping Derek gets the hint. Instead, Derek easily falls into step next to him. Stiles doesn’t know if he’s being purposely obtuse or if his social skills are really that rusty. He thinks the former.

“So, do you live around here?” Derek asks him when Stiles hands David some money for the olives he just bought. He opens his mouth to tell Derek to just _please fuck off_ , but David beats him to it.

“He does. Kind of a hermit, this one. Lives in the cabin in the woods. He’s been patching it up for a few weeks now.”

Derek raises an eyebrow, looking Stiles over. Stiles feels himself flush before he reminds himself that no, he _shouldn’t_. He’s not here for Derek. He’s here for himself.

“I didn’t know you had it in you,” Derek says when they’re walking back to the Jeep in a surprisingly comfortable silence. Stiles shrugs.

“I like it, I guess.”

He opens the Jeep’s trunk, putting his basket down before closing it and turning around to look at Derek.

“I’ll see you around,” Derek says after they just stare at each other, then turns on his heel and walks away. Stiles takes a second to look him over. He looks the same, but better. Older. More confident. Stiles can’t deny that he likes it.

He slams the door shut when he climbs into the Jeep. He’s not sixteen years old anymore. Derek’s old news.

Then why does his face feel so warm?

-

When he’s lying in his bed that night, staring up at the ceiling with an arm under his pillow, he thinks about it. He and Derek have a history. There’s always been _something_. All the gentle, brushing touches, the long, lingering looks. Lydia had confronted him about it once, asked upfront if they were fucking.

Stiles had squawked and blushed. They weren’t. That didn’t mean he hadn’t thought about it.

But it’s different now. He’s not the same teenager he was a year ago. He’s not even sure if he’s still a teenager. Derek’s different too; older, wiser, softer. All smiles, the bark and bite completely gone.

It unnerves him, this side of Derek. He’d always known it was there, of course, because that’s what he does – what he _did_. He noticed things, knew things. And it had been so obvious, hidden in the tense curve of Derek’s shoulders, the frown lines on his forehead, the corners of his mouth. Derek has laugh lines.

He turns onto his side, not bothering to pull the sheet up when it falls off his leg. It cools him down slightly, brings him down from his Derek-induced panic.

As he falls asleep, he can’t help but think that part of him also likes that side of Derek. He frowns before darkness overcomes him.

It’s scary.

-

“Goddamn couch,” he mutters, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “So goddamn heavy, can’t do anything myself.”

“Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, you know.”

Stiles freezes, hand halfway down his chest. It’s not a surprise, he knew Derek would turn up eventually, knew Derek wouldn’t be able to just leave him alone. He wipes his hand on his shirt, turning around to face Derek with a small smile.

“What if I’m already mad?”

Derek looks at him, a soft look in his eyes and a small frown on his face, and it makes Stiles ache because it reminds him of Beacon Hills, back when their biggest worries were making first line and not trying to survive another day. Back when they could still call Derek the bad guy. Back when Stiles still knew Derek.

“You’re not,” Derek says, all soft-voiced and Stiles has the sudden urge to punch him because Derek doesn’t _know_. He doesn’t know what it did to Stiles, the nogitsune. Doesn’t know what him leaving did to Stiles. How he couldn’t sleep for days, not crying, but not happy either, trembling hands and aching hearts because Derek used to be there for him but suddenly he wasn’t.

“You don’t know me,” he says, voice hard, glad it doesn’t waver like his hands. It might be rude, or uncalled for, but Stiles doesn’t care. Derek’s not an Alpha anymore, he doesn’t get to say anything. Derek’s all alone.

Just like him.

Instead of leaving, Derek walks up to stand next to him, shoulder brushing. Stiles shivers. He doesn’t know what he wants more; Derek leaving or Derek staying.

“I used to.”

He freezes. He’s wondered before, if Derek actually knew him. He thinks back to that one summer they spent together, the lingering looks in between searching for Erica and Boyd. Stiles bites his lip; the only time they interacted voluntarily and it was still under the guise of the pack.

“Did you?”

Derek comes to a stop in front of him, arms crossed and frown on his face. Stiles kick against a branch in front of him. It’s either that or fly into Derek’s arm - and the latter wouldn’t be a good idea, Stiles knows.

“I did,” Derek says, voice leaving no room for argument. “Maybe I still do.”

His fingernails bite into his palms. Derek left. He has no right to say that. He doesn’t know what happened.

They stand across from each other, just staring, waiting for something to happen. It makes Stiles ache, his nose filling with the smell of chlorine and ash. Derek huffs after a while, rolling up his sleeves. Stiles tries not to let his gaze linger on the flexing tendons.

“You and your superwolf powers,” Stiles mutters when Derek throws the couch into the woods like it weighs nothing. He pretends not to notice the way his heart skips a beat when the corner of Derek’s mouth turns up. He’s not _here_ for that. He doesn’t deserve it.

-

Derek doesn’t stop coming over. Stiles doesn’t ask him to. Derek shows up at twelve, wearing a tanktop and starts tearing down everything that looks unsalvageable. It makes Stiles breathless.

There’s a black line of dirt underneath his fingernail and he idly picks at it, ignoring the way his heart is beating out of his chest. Derek looks dirty yet obscenely beautiful as he tears down the dilapidated shed, wood cracking under the force of his hands.

Stiles glances at them. Swallows. He doesn’t think he’d mind having those hands on him.

“You okay?” Derek says, voice warm and filled with concern. Stiles’ eyes snap up. Derek’s frowning at him, gentle, holding out a steadying, comforting hand in case Stiles needs it. Stiles resists the urge to slap it away; he doesn’t need Derek to save him.

“Fine,” he says, the word trembling with anger that isn’t there. He thinks Derek gets it anyways, that Stiles isn’t angry at him. All animals lash out when they’re backed into a corner. Derek doesn’t know what he’s doing to him.

“Okay,” Derek says, shrugging a shoulder before he gets back to working. Stiles watches him, the way the muscles flex under the skin of his back. Derek keeps glancing at him, alternating between worried frowns and twinkling looks. Stiles doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He walks back into the cabin, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. He pretends not to notice how his hands are trembling. Derek throws him off balance. Makes his heart speed up.

Clenching his hands, he walks back out, sitting on a stump. With Derek here, he’s better off not doing anything; there’s no way he’ll ever be as useful as Derek is. He takes a sip of his water. Sad, maybe, but it’s true.

Stiles is useless, always has been. All it takes for it to come rushing back is Derek.

-

“Can I stay?” Derek asks. It’s this thing he does, every day when they’re together. Ask Stiles if he can stay. It makes Stiles’ throat close up.

“No.”

It’s the same, day in day out. Derek asks if he can stay - _are you okay yet?_ \- and Stiles says no because he isn’t.

He goes through phases where he doesn’t exist. Sometimes he looks up at the ceiling at three am and wonders if his fingers are still his. He remains in bed until Derek arrives, watches Derek work and then goes back to bed. He forgets to eat sometimes. Derek always wrinkles his nose when he does, like he can smell Stiles’ hunger.

He’s getting thinner, he knows. He doesn’t see the point in eating. It would just disappear - Stiles floats away regularly.

He’s only alive when Derek’s here.

Derek knows, or at least Stiles thinks he does. Derek looks at Stiles like he knows, sometimes. Touches him, too, with soft hands like he’s afraid Stiles will break.

Stiles appreciates those touches more than anything.

“Okay,” Derek says - like it’s that _simple_ \- and walks away. Stiles can’t decide if he despises him or not.

-

The cabin’s fixed. It smells like wood chips and bleach and cleaner and spring and Derek. Stiles is surprised to say he doesn’t mind; he thinks he could live happily like this for the rest of his life.

He’s not gonna dwell too much on that. He doesn’t want to ask anymore of Derek. Derek’s already given him enough, _too much_.

He takes Derek to Ikea. Or maybe Derek takes him, he can’t remember. All he knows is that he was suddenly sitting in his Jeep, Derek grabbing the keys from the kitchen counter. It’d made Stiles flinch; he doesn’t like it when Derek’s in his house, leaving footprints and marks that’ll take days to fade.

It’s like he’s forcing himself into another aspect of Stiles’ life.

They buy a couch, one that’s burgundy red and reminds Stiles of warmth and safety and home and the blood dripping off his fingers. Derek looks at him with concern in his eyes when Stiles picks it out but he ignores it.

“Do you wanna stay and eat?” Derek asks, shoulders a tense line like he knows Stiles is thinking of running.

He considers the idea for a second - does he want to stay and eat? It sounds so simple, but Stiles knows it isn’t. Derek’s looking at him with badly-hidden worry and apprehension. On one hand, staying with Derek is something he wants to do. He’d take any chance to stay with Derek.

On the other, he’ll have to _stay with Derek_. It reminds him of the first time Derek had told him to stay, back when Boyd and Erica were missing and Derek was alone in a loft that was way too big for him. Stiles remembers the hole in it with something less than fondness. It was ugly, ragged, big. Stiles had wondered if Derek had chosen the loft because it reminded him of himself.

Derek clears his throat, a gentle, patient noise that rips Stiles out of his daze. He forces himself not to blush. Not when Derek is still watching him. He swallows.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll stay.”

-

“You can stay,” Stiles says, heart pounding. Derek turns around, shoulders tense and eyes wide. “Just for one night. I don’t mind.”

And he doesn’t; it’s not a lie. He sees Derek’s eyes widen further when he detects no skip in his heartbeat. They both know what this means, that Stiles trusts someone else to come into his space. That he trusts Derek, trusts _himself_ to be okay with it. Derek swallows.

“Okay,” he says, glancing down and he looks so soft and vulnerable, standing on Stiles’ porch like he can’t believe his eyes. Stiles clenches his fingers on the doorpost. Derek trusts him. It’s going to be okay.

Besides, he thinks as he watches Derek walk back to the door. This is as much Derek’s house as it is his. Derek bought the couch, Derek tore the shed down. Derek clawed his way past Stiles’ defenses just like he always did. Derek saved Stiles, just like Stiles saved Derek.

He walks into the cabin, not checking to see if Derek is following him. Maybe it’s been this way for longer than he thought, this quiet acceptance of each other. It might’ve started out as reluctant tolerance of his presence, but somewhere in between the pool and the Alpha pack their gazes strayed and lingered.

They still do, Stiles thinks as he watches Derek move to the kitchen, following Derek’s every move. He doesn’t think he can look away. He needs to know this is real.

-

Stiles wakes up terrified.

“Allison,” he gasps, clawing at his throat, at the person next to him because he can’t _breathe_. “Allison, she’s-“

He twists, turns, _writhes._ He’s tangled up in something and he can’t _move._ Derek grabs a hold of his wrists, pinning them against the mattress.

“Stiles, it’s okay,” he says, voice stern and leaving no room for argument. “You’re _safe_.”

Stiles nods, clenching his hands in an effort to make them stop trembling. Derek pries them apart, holds them up until Stiles can see them.

“Count how many fingers you have.”

He blinks. Does it again, and again, until he can focus on his fingers. He counts in between gasps - _one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine-_

“Ten,” he gasps. “Ten fingers.”

“Good,” Derek whispers, rubbing a thumb over his pulse point. “You’re doing so good, Stiles.”

Stiles swallows and bites back the tears. He doesn’t remember the last time someone told him he was doing _good_. He nods, letting his head fall back against Derek’s shoulder. Derek freezes against him, muscles seizing up like he’s preparing for a threat. Stiles is about to withdraw when Derek relaxes, letting Stiles leans against him.

Derek smells like warmth and safety and _home_. He breathes in, out, repeat, until Derek’s scent settles in his lungs like it belongs there. His hands stop trembling, slowly, but he doesn’t stop holding onto Derek’s hands. He doesn’t want to.

“You’re safe here,” Derek whispers against the top of his head, pulling Stiles tighter against him until they’re breathing the same air. Derek’s warm, solid, firm, a constant reminder that this is _real_ , that Stiles exists and he’s safe because _Derek is here._

He tentatively opens his eyes, chancing a look at Derek. He looks so delicate like this, soft skin glowing in the pale moonlight. His breathing’s slow, a gentle rhythm that beckons Stiles back to sleep but he shakes it off because he doesn’t want to lose this tantalizingly fragile view of Derek.

Derek looks thin like this, cheekbones stark against the rest of his face, stubble a faint shadow, eyelashes casting dark smudges against his cheeks. Stiles thinks he’d like to kiss him.

Derek glances down then, eyebrows drawn but eyes warm, filled with twinkles that remind Stiles of the stars outside. He shifts a bit in Derek’s hold and Derek lets him, lets Stiles get comfortable even though he could so easily stop him. He curls a hand around Derek’s waist, laying his head against Derek’s collarbones.

His scent is stronger here, and Stiles breathes in deeply. He hears Derek’s heartbeat stutter beneath his ear. Smiling against his skin, he places a kiss on Derek’s collar bone, ignoring Derek’s sharp inhale.

He falls asleep like that, wrapped in Derek’s arms and surrounded by safety.

-

Derek ends up staying for more than a night. Stiles should’ve expected it. His life is made up of extremes, it’s always a constant struggle between all and nothing. In the end, he decides that having Derek around might not be as bad as he think.

He just hopes he doesn’t live to regret that thought.

He doesn’t tell Derek to live when the next day comes around. Derek doesn’t ask if he can stay. He seems to have taken Stiles’ silence as acceptance. Stiles isn’t sure Derek’s wrong.

But just because he allows Derek to stay, doesn’t mean they speak to each other. Weirdly enough, it seems like they don’t need to. It’s like they’re a well-oiled machine and Stiles suddenly feels ages younger, thinking back to the summer they spent together, where they didn’t talk for days either. They didn’t need to.

It was enough back then, the quiet tolerance and acceptance of everything the other stood for.

Stiles just isn’t sure if it’s going to be enough this time, he thinks as he watches Derek.

Derek’s staring out the window, his face framed by the sunlight and he’s drinking coffee from a mug. Something about it makes it hard to breathe. Suddenly Derek smiles and turns to him.

“There’s a porcupine nearby,” he says, voice rough and edged. Stiles can sympathize.

“You can hear that?” he asks even though he already knows the answer.

“Yes,” Derek says, narrowing his eyes as he listens. “It’s calling out for a partner. It’s close to mating season.”

“Maybe it’s a were-porcupine,” Stiles says, just because he can. Just because it reminds him of the old days. Derek glares at him.

“Don’t be stupid,” Derek says, taking another sip of coffee. Stiles nods and swallows around the lump in his throat.

“I’m not,” he says, fiddling with his fingernails. When he looks back up, Derek staring at him, a small smile on his face. His mug is empty.

“I know,” Derek says as he walks past, putting the mug on the counter.

It makes Stiles feel better.

-

The sun is turning the sky purple with bright blue spots, an ugly bruise that makes Stiles’ heart clench. It used to be his favorite thing, looking at the sunset. Now it reminds him of darkness and vulnerability and cold taunting.

Derek is standing in the kitchen again. Stiles likes to pretend he’s not there. Ever since Derek stayed he’s been making meals, getting groceries. The only time Stiles goes out is to go to Margaret’s, to reassure her he’s not dead yet.

She made him promise to bring Derek some time.

He probably will.

(He’s too scared of her not to.)

“Baked sushi?” Derek asks, the first thing they’ve said to each other all evening. Stiles startles, turning around. He’s torn between hating and loving the way Derek looks in his kitchen - shirtless and soft, like he thinks he belongs there. Stiles makes sure not to let his eyes linger.

Stiles shrugs, refusing to blush. He might not make the best life choices but neither does Derek.

“It sounded delicious at the time.”

And it did. Back when everything was okay, Stiles and his dad would eat sushi once every two months. He’d kind of been yearning for the same feeling - even if his dad wouldn’t be here. He clenches his hands into a fist; he doesn’t know when he’ll see his dad again. Doesn’t know when he’ll be ready.

Derek places a hand on his shoulder, looking at him with a tired smile hidden under his scruff. He needs to shave.

“Do we have a trashcan somewhere?” Derek asks, absentmindedly brushing his thumb over the curve of Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles represses a shiver and points to the plastic tub next to the door. Derek looks at him a second longer than he should and Stiles looks back. He feels like he’s drowning.

“Thanks,” Derek murmurs, walking towards it to throw the sushi away. Stiles keeps staring at the trashcan a long time.

It feels like Derek is doing something more than throwing food away. He just isn’t sure what.

-

“Do you ever think about it?” Derek asks one morning, after all their work is done. He’s sitting in front of the fireplace, trying to get some flames going. Stiles considers him, takes in the sight of Derek Hale wearing pajamas, barefoot. It makes his chest constrict.

“’Bout what?” he asks as he shoves more cereal into his mouth. Derek turns around, running a hand through his bedhead. Stiles ignores the way the movement emphasizes the muscles of his biceps.

“Going back.”

Stiles freezes, spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth. He entertains the thought for a second, seeing his dad, Scott, Malia, Lydia, Liam. Everyone he left behind. His head starts spinning and he takes a deep breath to pull himself together. He doesn’t want to.

“Do you?” he asks Derek, lowering the spoon again. Derek shifts his weight, a strangely human gesture and Stiles is reminded that they’re not that different, he and Derek.

“No.”

“Me neither.”

-

When Derek moves his clothes over to Stiles’ and sells his apartment, Stiles is close to throwing up. Derek’s been living here for a while now, he knows that, rationally. But selling his apartment makes it permanent.

It makes his skin crawl, the thought of having something permanent with Derek. But the thought of Derek leaving now makes his heart hurt. He clenches his hands into fists, nails digging into his palm.

He’s starting to feel like a teenager again and he’s not sure if he likes it.

-

The problem with living in the middle of the forest is that you can never keep the house clean. They’ve worked out a sort of schedule; they clean every two days, but never together. Stiles knows Derek wants to protest, but he never does. Stiles is glad for it.

He’s sitting on the couch, sipping coffee from a mug, when Derek walks into his vision with a wet cloth. He rolls up his sleeves, buttoning them before wiping down one of the windows until it sparkles with cleanliness.

Derek has this intense attention to detail. Even when his plan were shitty there were some things that were planned out so carefully that Stiles couldn’t help but swoon.

Derek frowns, leaning forward to wipe at a stubborn spot and Stiles’ heart suddenly stops.

“I’m in love with you,” Stiles says. He takes another sip, staring at Derek over the edge of the mug. It’s such a simple declaration but it means everything. Derek could leave, if he wanted to. Derek’s eyes widen. Stiles knows he didn’t hear a skip in his heart beat; Stiles has been in love with Derek for a while now.

“You shouldn’t-” Derek starts, frowning. “I’m bad for you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, because he’d thought Derek was done with the martyr-shtick. He’d thought Derek was better, thought _they_ were better. He swallows down the rest of his coffee, liquid courage that he doesn’t need. He hasn’t been afraid of anything for a long time.

“Kim Possible was my first crush. She could beat me up,” he says, heart pounding in his chest because he _needs_ Derek. The drab at the bottom of the cup swirls around uselessly. Stiles dumps it down the sink.

Derek’s head shoots up, eyes wide as he whispers, “Don’t compare this to a fucking cartoon character, Stiles! I’m talking about you getting seriously hurt, don’t- don’t joke about this.”

Derek’s breathing heavily, shoulders tensed in the familiar line that reminds Stiles of when they first met. His heart squeezes in his chest and he bites his lip, resists the urge to comfort Derek. He needs to do this.

“I know,” he says, voice filled with determination. “Believe me, I know. But guess what? I’m bad for you too.”

It hurts to say, but it has to be said. Derek doesn’t seem to want to acknowledge that Stiles has killed people with his bare hands. Derek whines, a high, inhuman noise, lurching forward before he catches himself and firmly plants his feet on the ground.

“Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

Derek’s voice is small, vulnerable. His shoulders slump and Stiles gives into it. Just this once. Just in case he can’t have it again. He draws Derek into his arms, pulling Derek tight to his chest until they’re breathing the same air.

For a few seconds, Stiles feels whole, feels _real_ , Derek’s firm chest and unyielding hold anchoring him to himself. Derek breathes in, the rush of air tickling the hairs at the nape at Stiles’ neck and Stiles shudders. Squeezes until he hopes Derek can feel it, feel how much Stiles wants, how much Stiles _loves_ him.

“Okay,” Derek mutters, voice muffled by the fabric of Stiles’ shirt. “Okay, I’m willing to try.”

Stiles smiles, the fire in his chest lighting up. For the first time in eight months, he feels happy.

-

“What’re you making?” Derek slurs, stumbling into the kitchen bleary-eyed and shirtless. Stiles blinks, takes a moment to remember the sight of Derek Hale shirtless with a bedhead. His heart skips a beat.

“Bacon cupcakes,” he says, shivering when Derek presses up against him. Derek’s arms close around his waist and he pecks Stiles shoulder, running his unshaven cheek over the skin. He’s so warm, Stiles can’t help but melt into him.

“Sounds disgusting,” Derek mumbles sleepily into Stiles’ skin, laying a trail of kisses up the side of Stiles’ neck. Stiles hums, tilting his neck and he can feel the way the corners of Derek’s lips turn up.

“Thought it’d appeal to your wolfy nature.”

Derek grumbles something that Stiles doesn’t catch, but he imagines it being protest. He rolls his eyes sticking a finger in the dough and holding it up for Derek to taste. Derek smiles against before leaning forward to take Stiles’ finger into his mouth. Stiles feels his cheeks heat up; Derek is rhythmically sucking on Stiles fingers, hollowing his cheeks as he takes the digit further into his mouth. Stiles promptly pulls his finger out when Derek moans softly.

“Good, right?” he says, voice trembling. Derek smiles smugly and Stiles resists the urge to elbow him.

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says, all low and grumbling and Stiles shivers in response. Derek tilts his chin back with rough, impatient fingers and leans down to kiss him, his tongue slipping into Stiles’ mouth. Stiles melts against him.

The cupcakes will have to wait.

-

The bed seems too big when they’re lying in it, but it’s still the same one-person mattress Stiles has been sleeping on for months. He doesn’t feel like he can get close enough to Derek.

Derek holds him tight, pressing kisses into his hair like he can’t believe it’s real. Stiles can relate; for the first time his hands feel like his against, pressed up against Derek’s chest like they belong there.

He’s thought about this countless times, sharing a bed with Derek. He always thought it’d lead to rough, passionate sex, but he swallows. He isn’t sure if he wants that. He isn’t sure if _Derek_ wants that. And that’s okay, he thinks as he moves his hands down Derek’s arms.

“I love you,” Derek breathes. It sounds more like a prayer than a statement.

“I know,” Stiles says, pressing his face into Derek’s shoulder. “I know.”

Derek’s fingernails dig into his shoulder blade and he tightens his grip on Derek’s waist. Pain shoots through his back but Stiles wants Derek to cling on tighter. It doesn’t feel like enough.

“You’re everything,” Derek says, his breath ghosting over Stiles’ face. Stiles doesn’t deserve it. “You’re everything, Stiles.”

“I’m sorry,” he says and he means it. He does. But it’s not enough, never enough. It’s over-used, meaningless. It leaves an ugly taste in his mouth. _I’m sorry_ doesn’t cover it.

“I know,” Derek says. Stiles heart clenches when he feels Derek’s tears slide over his skin. He whispers nonsense into Derek’s ears, run his fingernails through Derek’s scruff, lets Derek tremble against him. Covers him like a safety blanket, like Stiles can protect Derek from the world even though the thing Derek needs protection from is _him_.

Derek shakes against him, powerful muscles trembling and giving beneath Stiles’ fingers and Stiles is overcome with the realization that _this is Derek_. This is the way Derek used to be, the way Derek _should_ be.

Derek might look more put together, and maybe he _is_ , but he’s nowhere near as okay as Stiles thought he was. The realization shoots through him, makes his eyes widen, makes it hard to swallow. He’d thought he was the only one who wasn’t remotely close to okay, but with Derek falling apart on top of him he’s not so sure anymore.

Stiles breathes in Derek’s scent, lets him cry until he falls asleep. He wipes the tear tracks off Derek’s cheeks. He looks so vulnerable like this, mouth parted and eyes closed.

They might not be okay right now, but he thinks they might be. Eventually.

-

“Stiles, dear, it’s so nice to see you again,” Margaret says when she opens the door, drawing him into a suffocating hug. He smiles and hugs her back; he’s missed Margaret. “Oh, and who is this?”

When Stiles is released, he dust himself off. Derek’s biting the inside of his cheek, trying to repress a smile. Stiles despises him.

“I’m Derek Hale, ma’am,” he says, extending his hand for her to shake. She considers him for a second, eyes narrowed, before she shakes it.

“Margaret Jones,” she smiles sweetly. “Now come in, it’s cold out.”

It’s the middle of summer – somewhere in August, but they follow her in anyways. Stiles smiles. The house still looks exactly the same and it smells like ginger. He can already guess what today’s cookies are.

“Is she wearing fluffy bunny slippers?” Derek whispers. Stiles winces; there’s no way Margaret hadn’t heard that.

“I might be old, but I’m not deaf, young man!” she says, turning around and glaring at Derek. At least Derek knows enough about terrifying old ladies to look bashful. Stiles resists the urge to elbow his stomach.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Derek says, voice soft and filled with deference. Stiles smirks; he’s never going to let this go.

Margaret hums something back noncommittally, motioning for them to follow her into the living room. Stiles has only been in there a few times, mostly when Margaret had decided he’d been ‘worryingly underfed’. He swallows; this means serious business.

“So, Stiles,” Margaret says, eyes considering. Stiles is not sure if he likes how this is going to turn out. “How did you two meet?”

Oh shit. Such a simple question yet it’s one he can’t even answer truthfully. This is going to be a disaster, he’s shit at lying to Margaret.

“We met- we met a snail convention,” he blurts out. “Because of our mutual love for snails.”

Margaret perches her fingers together, tapping the index fingers against each other and looks at them over the rim of her glasses. Stiles resists the urge to squirm in his seat.

“That’s interesting.”

“Yeah, they’re fascinating. They just go so slow and they don’t care about anything, you know? Plus, their anatomy makes it –“

“Do you have other shared interests?” Margaret cuts him off with a sharp look. Stiles is torn between feeling grateful and being scared.

“Singing off key,” Derek says, a deadpan look on his face. Stiles narrows his eyes at him; his singing isn’t _that_ bad.

“Shut up, my singing’s beautiful. I could’ve been the next Adele.”

“In your dreams,” Derek says, crossing his arms. Stiles grins.

“Oh, I dream about entirely different things,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. He bites his lip to stop himself from laughing when the tips of Derek’s ears turn bright red.

“Stiles, dear, could you help me with the cookies?” Margaret says, her eyes twinkling. Stiles feels his cheeks flush; he’d forgotten she was still there.

“Of course,” he says, throwing a wink at Derek as he walks away. Margaret pushes him into the kitchen with firm hands.

“Derek seems like a nice young man,” she says, handing Stiles three glasses and nodding her head towards the sink.

“He is,” Stiles says, staring at the glasses as he fills them. He really doesn’t need her to see how much he’s smiling.

“I think you’ve found your match in him. I definitely approve. Plus, he’s quite the looker,” she says as she grabs the glasses from him and places them on a tray. She winks before she walks out of the kitchen, leaving Stiles standing, speechless.

He can’t help but agree.

-

“Mutual love for snails, really?” Derek says, _snorts_. He’s wearing a stupid grin – the one that makes his dimples stand out. Stiles doesn’t know whether he wants to punch him or kiss him.

“Shut up, I don’t do well under pressure,” he mumbles, cheeks heating. Derek raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, you do.”

Stiles swallows. Thinks back to all the times he did. His nose fills with the smell of chlorine and blood and ash.

“Okay, fine,” he says, glad his voice doesn’t tremble. He clenches his hands into fists. “But not when I’m being interrogated by old ladies wearing fluffy bunny slippers.”

Derek chuckles and Stiles smiles. He can relate. Margaret is an oddly terrifying yet sweet woman. The first time she practically threw her cookie jar in his face, Stiles almost broke his nose.

“She reminds me of my grandma,” Derek says, voice soft and gaze distant. Stiles swallows and falls into step next to him, tangles his fingers with Derek’s. The corner of Derek’s mouth turns up and he squeezes Stiles’ fingers. Stiles feels his stomach flip.

“Your grandma must’ve been terrifying,” he says and Derek grins, probably thinking of one of the things he did as a kid. It makes him look so much younger, like the twenty-something he _is_.

“She was,” Derek says, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. “But she was also the kindest woman I’ve ever known. She used to give us presents all the time; she was the one who gave me _Don Quixote._ ”

Stiles flashes back to the battered copy that rests on Derek’s nightstand. The cover is charred and it still smells like smoke. Now he knows why Derek doesn’t just get rid of something that reminds him of the fire.

“Sounds like my mom,” Stiles says, his throat closing. “She brought me all the books I wanted. We used to read them together.”

“Sounds nice,” Derek says, squeezing his fingers again. Stiles can feel himself tearing up. He loves Derek.

“It was.”

-

On a particularly warm summer evening, they make a bonfire. It chokes Stiles up at first – he hasn’t done this since his mom died – but he picks up the pace fairly quickly. It should be stifling, the headiness and smell of smoke, but it calms him, curls around him like a blanket with a promise to keep him safe.

He glances at Derek. The line of his shoulders is tense. Stiles knows what he’s thinking and he puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him. The Hale Fire happened almost a decade ago but Stiles knows it’s seared into Derek’s mind, like an ugly, simmering scar. Stiles doesn’t think he’ll ever heal.

Derek smiles – the small, soft one that makes Stiles’ heart pound like crazy – and hands him a wooden stick with a marshmallow. Stiles raises an eyebrow, because he didn’t know they had marshmallows, but Derek shrugs and waves it in his face. Stiles sticks out his tongue and takes it.

The air fills with the smell of burnt sugar. Stiles rotates the stick, careful not to burn it. A little pain is good, but too much makes things ugly.

“You know, it reminds me of you,” he says when he has half of the marshmallow in his mouth, his fingers covered in gooey stickiness. Derek raises an eyebrow, sucking his own fingers clean.

“The marshmallow?”

Derek’s voice is monotone in a way that reminds Stiles of how they used to be; barely enemies, but not friends either. He brushes his fingers against Derek’s shoulder to remind himself that’s over now. Derek’s _his_.

“Stop the judging, mister,” he says, smiling at Derek with pieces of marshmallow stuck between his teeth. Derek wrinkles his nose in disgust. Whatever, Stiles thinks. He knew what he was getting into. “And yes the marshmallow. You’re kinda the same, all crispy on the outside, but sweet and gooey on the inside.”

Derek turns away, the contours of his face flaring up in reds and Stiles’ heart skips a beat. Derek’s always absurdly beautiful, but the dancing flames make him seem ethereal.

“And I’m white?” Derek deadpans, rubbing the stick in between his palms. Stiles chokes on the remainder of his marshmallow and he glares at Derek.

“Shut up, it was supposed to be a metaphor.”

Derek looks at him, smiling, eyebrow raised. Stiles hates him, the stupid, gorgeous, sarcastic, jerk of a werewolf. Too pretty for his own good.

“Am I at least delicious to eat?” Derek says with a smirk and Stiles punches him in the shoulder.

“I don’t know,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “Maybe I should get a better taste.”

Derek rolls his eyes but leans forward anyways. He pulls Derek closer, careful not to get marshmallow goo over Derek’s leather jacket. Derek grumbles something about being careful, but Stiles shuts him up with a kiss.

Stiles smiles against Derek’s mouth; he tastes like burnt sugar and happiness.

-

It’s getting cold. Or well, it’s going to. It’s only September, but winter hits hard and fast in Oregon so they’ll need to stock up. Derek settled Stiles with the grocery duty and Stiles had complained until Derek told him he could get wood for the fireplace instead.

Stiles had quickly driven off after that.

Maybe he’d taken a few detours in preparation of saying Derek handle an axe, but apparently it hadn’t been enough; when he steps out of the Jeep, he’s pretty sure his mouth falls open.

“I think I read this once in a fanfiction,” he says, watching as Derek’s chops another block of wood, swinging the axe down with immeasurable force. Stiles can personally testify to Derek’s strength; he remembers those hands pressing him into the wall vividly.

Derek puts down the axe, wiping the sweat off his forehead as he rolls his eyes. Stiles bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smirking. Derek’s flannel is soaked. Maybe Derek should do the washing up this time.

“Every word in that sentence makes me regret my life choices,” Derek grumbles, taking the water bottle Stiles is offering and chugging it down, a few stray droplets clinging onto his beard. Stiles takes a moment to appreciate the sight before he shakes himself out of it.

“Shut up, you love me,” he mumbles when he grabs the water bottle, drinking the last bit. He smirks when he sees the way Derek’s staring at his throat when he swallows and he tips it back further. The tips of Derek’s ears turn red and he quickly looks away.

“I really do,” Derek says, voice soft and eyes warm when he looks at Stiles and Stiles really can’t believe this is his life. He’s eighteen, he lives in the woods with the man he loves – who happens to look like he walked out of the cover of GQ – and he’s still _alive_. He made it.

“Love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> [If you really liked this, please vote for team Finger Lickin' Good here](http://www.poll-maker.com/poll788266xE9b24beC-32) ^^
> 
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